Page 2 of The Wolf of Mayfair
A young lady seeking him out in his familial residence? Curious, that. Not curious enough for Wingrave to care—especially for some innocent miss who’d made the mistake of visiting his doorstep. For all his well-earned reputation as society’s most notorious rake, he’d never been so caddish as to bed a virgin.
He did a slow walk about the table. All the while he lazily contemplated the billiard balls scattered upon the green velvet surface.
He’d little interest in virgins’ simpering and tears, and he had even less interest in training those creatures for the future use of other men, who’d benefit from the largesse of Wingrave’s efforts.
No, he wanted the women he took as lovers to be skilled and possessed of as insatiable an appetite as him—though that invariably proved a rare feat.
Leaning an elbow against the rose, Wingrave launched another effortless shot that ricocheted off the back center of the table and landed in the opposite pocket.
“You’re still here,” he said, infusing a steely warning into that observation.
The servant cleared his throat. “Y-yes.”
The fool didn’t say anything more than that.
“Get rid of her,” Wingrave snapped.
“Y-yes, my l-lord. It is just ... the lady is not here to see you, my lord.”
It took a moment to register that the butler not only remained but that he did so and continued to speak about the nighttime visitor at Horace House.
At last, Wingrave looked up at the annoyingly tenacious servant.
“The lady is here to see the Duke and Duchess of Talbert.”
Ahh. “You should have led with that. I care even less about the chit’s identity and presence here. The duke and duchess have retired to Bedford Manor, so direct her there.”
The servant’s face turned a deeper shade of crimson. “Yes, but there is a storm brewing, my lord.”
Still poised to spring his next shot, Wingrave looked across the table and winged an eyebrow up. “Which is something you believe I care about?” he drawled mockingly.
“No, my lord?”
“No. That is the first right thing you’ve said this evening.” He lifted his glass in a jeering salute to the stammering fellow and took a welcome swallow of the subtly sweet brandy.
The butler beamed like he’d been given a raise for good services rendered.
“Do you know what youshouldcare about?” Wingrave asked the grinning hireling.
Even the huge shake the butler gave of his head couldn’t dislodge the brown hair he’d combed to the right and heavily slicked with pomade.
“Your employment.Thatis what you should care about—”
“I believe she is a ward of His and Her Grace,” the servant beseeched.
Good God, the man wouldn’t quit. As Wingrave saw it, he had two options before him: one, sack the servant, but then he’d be without a head of the household staff and, for that matter, required to expend energy to find a new one. And two, handle the man’s job for him, so he could enjoy his goddamned game and brandy.
“Where is she?”
“In the foyer,” the butler said quickly. The man’s previously tense shoulders sagged with a visible relief.
Wingrave returned his cue to the wall mount and went and collected his snifter. He thought better of it, grabbed the nearby decanter of brandy, and set down his half-empty glass.
With bottle in hand, Wingrave quit the billiards room.
As he strode the wide, red-velvet-carpeted halls, the butler trotted behind him like a small, obnoxious, obedient pup that tried to keep up with its master.
“Does she have a name?” Wingrave asked, without breaking stride.
